Charmer
by xLittle Black Star
Summary: Snow had a talent for phrasing even the most vile of things so nicely. In fact, if Finnick Odair was as dull as the Capitol citizens, he might not even have realized that the president had just blackmailed him into prostitution. Finnick!centric oneshot.


**Note:** I pretend he's still alive. I LOVE HIM, OKAY?

And I don't know, I'm feeling philosophical lately.

**Prompt: **"the regret when he loses his virginity to a woman twice his age whose name he can't remember" from _we're all mad here_ by technicolor-dreaming.

* * *

_Charm them, _he said. Simple, matter-of-fact. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, like Finnick had nothing to worry about even though it was a matter of life and death.

_Charm them, _Finnick instructed himself. He carefully turned the words over and inside out, side-stepping the hidden meaning behind them. Oh, gross. He couldn't think about that. It was almost too easy to avoid; Snow had a sick talent for phrasing even the most vile of things so nicely. He was... eloquent, if you will. In fact, if Finnick Odiar was as dull as the Capitol citizens, he might not even have realized that the president had just blackmailed him into prostitution.

Finnick adjusted the ridiculous garment he had been forced into, kicking and screaming while the stylists stretched it over his body—in his mind, at least. Physically he stood there, like a good little Finnick, because misbehaving got you a lot more than a time-out here in the Capitol. There was no reason for him to learn that the hard way; he'd seen it enough times to know.

His stomach coiled with disgust. It could hardly even be called a garment—last Finnick checked, garments were made from actual fabric, not _netting—_perhaps _threads _or _string _were more apt.

Snow leered by the door, an over-sized spider about to go in for the kill, spindly fingers outstretched, hovering over the sleek doorknob. The president arched stenciled, artificial eyebrows in a taunt. Something horrible, manic, _dangerous_ brewed in Snow's eyes; an emotion so crazed and psychotically gleeful Finnick knew it could only belong to a madman. Of course Snow would be practically giddy with triumph, though. Either way this went, the president was the winner.

Finnick swallowed the bile in his throat and nodded his assent for Snow to open the door. He was ready now; and even though he wasn't truly ready, he had to be.

Plastic chatter reached his ears. Faux laughter and dizzy smiles plastered too wide across the citizens' faces. A crowd mixed with multicolored skin; animal mutations and plastic-surgery nightmares milling, swaying about. Monsters. All of them. Monsters, mutants; creatures that had twisted the very idea of humanity and poisoned it, squeezed until the immaculacy and reverence for human life broke, and then applied their own meaning to it. It sickened him; his horror and nauseous amazement never lessened.

_Charm them, _the teenager repeated once, twice. _Charm them. _A mantra, his mantra. A new rule to live by. He'd won every Capitol citizens' support. He'd survived the Hunger Games. He'd slaughtered multiple _children, _for heavens sake. He could be charming, he'd done it before. He could be sexy and convincing. Totally. He could totally do this.

Finnick breathed deeply, violently cursing his clammy hands, and concentrated on his task. To complete this "job"—a malicious scoff from Finnick at the poor terminology for an action so _heinous—_in a manner Snow would consider acceptable, Finnick needed to be completely outside himself. Detached. Vacant, emotionless. He'd done it before; lost himself, that is, in a sense. Or perhaps just buried his identity, his conscience, so deep it didn't surface except to haunt him after he'd committed the deed. It was easier that way, to be a mask, to be a clean slate. It was his way of protecting himself, of remaining untarnished; preserved. They could make whatever imprint they wanted on him and he would shed it away, allow it to roll and slide off him when he slipped back into his regular self. It didn't work flawlessly—of course there were holes, imperfections—but it kept him standing on his own two feet, and that was what he needed. If he could still breathe and think for himself, he had not truly surrendered.

Snow sauntered towards the food: a table piled to a dizzying height, lavished with every food imaginable and some that weren't. Finnick preferred not to eat at Capitol banquets; if the districts could not eat that food, then neither could he. He couldn't help but think how many starving families all the abundance could feed.

Finnick followed a safe distance behind the president and absentmindedly chattered with the socialites who stopped him along the way, his smile never wavering. As an indigo-skinned woman turned to walk away from him, President Snow made eye contact with Finnick. His genetically-altered smile looked so manic Finnick felt sick all over again. Snow's eyes flickered to a woman with her back facing them. Her dress was leopard printed and could hardly be called a dress. Subtly, Snow motioned to her with his chin.

Finnick's throat constricted and for a moment his vision swam, but he nodded slightly when the president came back into focus. _Breathe, you idiot, _Finnick chided himself. He could only wonder how people might react if he passed out on the floor. Maybe he'd get lucky and never wake up. Or better yet, the floor would just open and swallow him.

His feet responded better than his mind; they marched, almost robotically, as though separated from his will, toward the woman.

Inhale, exhale. _Breathe._

He found himself extending an arm to tap her shoulder in a completely invasive, out-of-character way Finnick considered to be rude and inappropriate. The woman had no such reaction, fortunately or unfortunately.

"Finnick Odiar," she purred, like a cat.

Oh my God, she was actually a cat. Her teeth were dainty, but appeared to be wickedly pointed at the edges, and her eyes, _her eyes..._

Finnick rapidly sucked in more air and concentrated on smirking dazzlingly. Those eyes. Those _teeth. _He couldn't tear his gaze away. How on earth was he going to get through the night without a lacerated tongue?

The thought brought on another wave of nausea. How _old _was she, anyway...?

Inhale, exhale. Just keep breathing, just keep smiling.

He brought his lips down to brush her ear. "I don't believe we've ever met, Miss..."

"Catz," the woman specifies, almost giggling with pleasure, even though Finnick is barely a day over fifteen, and she must be... Finnick pushed the thought away. He really didn't want to know, he decided.

He blinked. Catz? Was she joking? "Deniza Catz."

She was too close, _too close. _Her perfume reeked—something awful, probably catnip. Finnick's temples pounded.

He could totally not do this.

He felt his body lean in closer, though his instinct was to recoil at Deniza's papery flesh, and whisper something else. His tongue felt thick and slow, but apparently he managed to choke the words out in an intelligible manner. Deniza made a noise that reminded him somewhat of a meow, but he refused to believe it.

"Of course," she said, what Finnick assumed was her answer to whatever question he had asked her. He couldn't remember. The room spun. Iridescent chandelier lights flickered and swayed above his head, dancing psychedelically in Finnick's feverish perspective.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe, Finnick, _breathe._

His feet led the way again, and he had no choice but to trail after Deniza. He reminded himself what was at stake here. This was so much better than the alternative—better than hearing his families' blood-curdling shrieks, better than watching his friends choke on their own blood, than watching their stained and lifeless corpses fall to the ground and crumple.

Finnick knew Snow would make him watch. He knew.

The thought propelled him forward, even as Deniza unlocked the door to her room—oh, God, her _room. _Finnick had never felt so close to dying before, not even in the arena when they chased him, when he heard the wails and screams of complete and utter terror, when blood splattered his hands and body but he couldn't tell whose...

_Breathe, Finnick, breathe, _he chanted. Don't think. Don't feel. He willed himself not to concentrate, not to focus on what was actually happening and what he was _doing_. The blood pounding in his ears and shaking his vision helped to take the pristine reality away from the moment, and he could pretend it was just a dream, _just a dream._

He pulled as far away from her as possible the instant she _finally _dozed off. His skin felt raw and itchy, and he wanted to peel it all off, scrape it all away and forget. He was a virgin. A _virgin. _

_Not anymore, _he reminded himself venomously. So maybe he wasn't exactly educated, but he _knew _it wasn't supposed to happen like that, it wasn't supposed to _feel _so... so _awful_ and tainted and...

His body shook violently. He could still be a virgin, that was... it was... abuse, or... or _molest_. He was still just a child, a _child..._

Keep breathing, Finnick. Just breathe._  
_

He rolled out of the starchy sheets and hit the carpeted floor roughly. He crawled to the bathroom, snatching up whatever clothes he could find, trying so desperately to forget where he is and why he has to be so quiet.

Acid churned in his stomach. His fingers scraped and clawed at his skin, and he imagined he could just rip it all away and be new again. Ha. His lungs ached and his throat wheezed, and he pictured his mother, smiling, happy. _Alive._

You saved her, Finnick._ You saved her._

The thought comforted him enough to stand up straight again. Better than the alternative. So, so much better. (Only slightly.) Finnick pressed his trembling fingers to his temples and willed his jumbled thoughts to fold into place. Remembered how his mother looked at him, like he was really there and still just a little boy who hadn't murdered innocent children and his nightmares didn't torture him on a regular basis. And his father, with his gnarled but warm hands, clutching his shoulder and telling him he would pull through this, because he was an _Odiar._

It's going to be okay, Finnick.

And it is okay. Well, maybe not okay, but manageable. Enough to creep back into bed in the morning before Deniza awakened. Enough to smile and flirt convincingly enough.

Inhale, exhale.

_Breathe, _Finnick, _just breathe._


End file.
